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Authors: Mariah Stewart

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BOOK: Wonderful You
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“Yes. Yes, it is, Zoey. I know how much you always liked Ben.” Delia spoke slowly, as if deep in thought. “Zoey, does he have a family now?”

“What?”

“Ben. Is he married? Does he have children?”

“I

I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” Her words tumbled over each other.

The thought had never occurred to her. Could that be possible? Surely fate would not play such a cruel joke on her.

“I think maybe Delaney would have mentioned it, though. I mean, there were dozens of photographs of Ben. Just Ben. No woman. No children. Just Ben.”

“Hmmm. That wouldn’t seem likely if he had a family.” Delia was thinking aloud. “And what do you suppose he will be doing?”

“What do you mean, ‘doing’?”

“I mean, is he coming for a short visit? Is he moving here?”

“I think he might be visiting with Delaney for a while, but I’m not really sure. Delaney did say something about Ben being in the process of moving, but I was so surprised I
forgot to ask where. Or when…”

“Well, of course, you must let me know when he comes back, Zoey. I do want to see him. But in the meantime
…”

Delia paused, as if choosing her words carefully.

“In the meantime, sweetheart, just keep in mind that people can change over the years. We don’t know who Ben grew up to be.”

“What are you trying to say, Mom?”

“Just hold on to your heart, Zoey. The man may be very different from the boy we used to know.”

* * *

B
en Pierce hobbled through the airport leaning his weight on a cane, not for a moment missing the irony that his lopsided stride perfectly mimicked that of his elderly grandfather, who was, Ben couldn’t help but notice, a lot more adept with the cane than
he
was.

“You having a problem keeping up, son?” Delaney had stopped once to call over his shoulder.

“I’m still getting the hang of it,” Ben told him. “I’ve never had to use a cane before.”

“And with any luck and some physical therapy, you won’t need this one for long.” Delaney leaned on his own dark wood cane, as much to catch his breath as to allow Ben to catch up. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like one of those little golf cart type things to ride in?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about you. Are you sure you should be doing all this walking?”

Delaney straightened his back. “The doctor told me I need some moderate exercise. I am more worried about your ankle than I am about myself.”

Ben scowled and with his cane pointed ahead, indicating that they should proceed toward the exit.

“I’m having someone pick up your luggage and drop it
off at my condo,” Delaney told him as they approached the escalator that would take them to the first floor. “But I wanted to pick you up myself. I left the car right at the curb, so we’re almost there.”

They went through electronic doors into the remnants of a deep, early morning mist that had wrapped about the Philadelphia airport. Too early yet for the commuters and the real hustle-bustle of a weekday morning, there were few cars and fewer buses. Delaney’s Town Car was fifteen feet from the doorway, and Ben wasn’t sure if he’d ever been happier to see a car parked and waiting for him. Maybe his first Ferrari.

Delaney unlocked the doors and Ben slid somewhat awkwardly onto the front seat. It had been a long time since he had been seated in the passenger seat of his grandfather’s car.

“Still like the Lincolns, eh, Delaney?”

“Haven’t found anything to beat it, son.”

“Tried the Lexus?” Ben asked as Delaney started the engine and headed toward the airport exit and Interstate 95.

“Nope. Haven’t bothered to try anything else. Seems to me that as long as I like what I have, there’s no reason to waste time looking around. When the day comes that I’m unhappy with my Town Car, then I’ll try something else. But for the time being, I’m happy as a clam.”

Ben smiled and looked out the window as the scenery seemed to crawl by at a slow speed.

“Tell me what you’d like to do, son. Do you want to go back to my place and rest for a while? You know, you don’t have to go into the office today.”

“Rest?” Ben raised his eyebrows. “I’ve been resting for five months, three of which I spent in a full leg cast, the other two with a cast to the knee. Thanks, Delaney, but I think I’ve had all the rest I can tolerate for a while.”

“I’m sorry that the ankle didn’t heal better than it did.”

“The doctors said that the screw through the side should help give me some stability. Fortunately, the
break was high enough on the bone that I haven’t had to
have a fusion. I will reg
ain mobility. It’s just taking
longer than they thought.”

And longer than I can stand.

It had been a rough f
ew months for a man accustomed
to total freedom. Confined first
to the hospital, then to
his flat, Ben had learned just exactly what
cabin fever
really meant. With so man
y of his racing buddies out of
the country for the holidays, he had few visitors. Unless, of course, he counted the girlfriends of several of
his
friends who stopped in to see if he “needed” anything. It
annoyed Ben just to think
about it. True, it had been a
while since he’d had female companionship, and being
restricted to his home ha
d totally removed him from the
lively London social scene, b
ut still, he wasn’t so desper
ate that he’d have accepted the offers—some more
subtle than others—for comfort from another man’s
woman.

He leaned back in the seat and stared straight ahead through the windshield, trying not to think about the last time he’d been
o
n this same road, in another big Lincoln, with his grandfather at the wheel. That time,
however, instead of heading toward Lancaster and Delaney’s newest corporate venture they’d been heading north, to the house his mother had grown up in, a house that for Ben held only the painful memories of watching
his mother die.

And here we are, once again, my grandfather and I. Who’d have guessed that the years would
bring me back to this place?

He read the names of towns, once familiar, from a sign at a stoplight, fighting back the panic that had started swirling inside his head, wondering just how far they might be from the house that
he
had called home. He had been tempted to find a map of Pennsylvania and see just how far Lanning’s Co
rn
er, Lancaster County, was from Westboro, in Chester County, but wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It couldn’t possibly be that far. Even after all the years, he remembered that Lancaster was the
next county. He watched the fields, frozen still in these last days of winter, as they rolled past the windows of the car, and wondered if Delia Enright still lived there, in that wonderful house that had offered him so much more than shelter so very long ago.

Ben having been in the hospital recovering from his accident, Delia’s last birthday had come and gone without his sending his usual birthday card, which, along with reading her books, was the only contact with that part of his life he could permit himself to maintain. He wondered if she noticed. Every year the message had been essentially the same: I think of you often, and hope that you are all well and happy. He had rarely asked about her children, those near siblings of his. He had simply missed them too much. Merely writing their names could bring their faces too close, close enough to see their smiles, hear their laughter. For a fourteen-year-old who had lost everything that had mattered to him, it hurt too much to even think of them. After his mother had died, it had been so much easier to pretend that those days in Westboro—those days with Delia and her family, when he and Maureen had been happy and life had been so full, so wonderful—had never really happened after all.

And yet here he was, in his grandfather’s Lincoln, headed north on Route 202 just outside West Chester. Which was, he recalled, just a few miles from Westboro.

Certain landmarks loomed familiar. The ragged stone wall that encircled the Friends cemetery on the co
rn
er they had just passed by, a small pond set back from the road where geese gathered, hunched and chilled, in the early morning air.

A small sign pointing to the right at the next intersection announced Westboro—three miles. He glanced at the street sign. Old Forge Road.

He studied the co
rn
er, searching his memory for something familiar, but there was nothing there that had existed back then. The intersection had, those many years ago, s
een a field on each of three corn
ers, a dense
wood on the fourth. The gas station that stood on the far right was new. On the opposite side of the road, a housing development stretched as far as the eye could see. He wanted to say something, to comment on it, on how much the area had changed since he had left, but his throat had tightened so, he couldn’t seem to get the words out. When the light
changed and Delaney contin
ued straight on the road ahead, Ben fought an urge to look far down that road that led to Westboro as they passed it.

Fought and lost.

Delia Enright lived two and six-tenths of a mile down that road.

He wondered if Delaney remembered.

 

 

11

 

 

T
hat Zoey, who had no interest in cooking, had somehow been chosen to launch the first of the new on-air cooking shows was clearly someone’s idea of a perverse joke as far as she was concerned.

“Zoey, you have a call coming in from a viewer.” Ellen, the producer, spoke into Zoey’s ear via a tiny transistor.

“Hi. This is Zoey. What’s your name and where are you from?” She tried to sound perky as she broke an egg for an omelet into a pretty pottery bowl. The omelet was to be cooked in a pan that was part of the set of two that she was selling.

“Irene. I’m from Illinois.” The caller sounded slightly nervous.

“Irene from Illinois,” Zoey said cheerfully, since it was her job to make the customers feel welcome, part of the HMP family. “I’m glad to hear from you. How are you today?”

A large piece of eggshell was floating, noticeably, in the bowl. Zoey tried to grab it but it slipped through her fingers.

“I’m fine. Zoey, I have to tell you that you are my favorite person on the HMP.”

“Thank you, Irene. You’re my favorite person in Illinois.”

She tried to lift the piece of shell with a fingernail, but it slid away and sank momentarily.

“Zoey, forget about the damned eggshell.” Ellen’s voice in her ear brok
e Zoey’s concentration for a mo
ment.

“Zoey,” the caller was saying, “you know, if you used a larger piece of shell to scoop up that little piece, you could pick it right up.”

“Really?” She had never heard that one. Then again, she hadn’t spent too much time cooking over the years either. She tried it. “Hey, Irene, thanks. That worked really well. I guess you can tell I’m a bit of a fledgling.”

“That’s all right honey, everyone has to learn. You have all of us here to help you.” Irene from Illinois offered maternal assurance.

“Well, thank you for calling in, Irene. And thanks for
your help here this morning…”

“Zoey, the frying pan’s starting to smoke. Take it off the burner.” Ellen tried to maintain her calm. “And mix up that damned egg, will you? Sell the pan and keep the show moving!”

“We’re just going to whip up this little cheese omelet.” Zoey glanced at the clock that was keeping time right above her own smiling face on the monitor. It was ten minutes past eleven. Fifty more minutes to go. She dumped the cheese unceremoniously into the frying pan.

“Zoey,” Ellen said with some alarm, “the cheese is supposed to go into the eggs before you dump it into the pan. That cheese is going to—”

“Oops!” Zoey said aloud, realizing that the pan was very hot from having sat empty on a lit burner. “Well, now, here’s a little impromptu test fo
r this nonstick pan. Will it burn
? Or will it stick?”

Using a spatula, she stirred the cheese quickly, then lifted out the globby mess.

“Wow. These pans
are
great. It didn’t stick
or
burn.” Zoey held up the pan for the camera, trying to ignore Ellen’s laughter, which was, literally, ringing in her ears. “Well, thank you, Irene, for calling in this morning.”

“Zoey, can I tell you one thing?”

“Sure, Irene.”

“Keep it short, Zoey,” Ellen admonished her through the earpiece. “You’re running late. You should be on the next size frying pan now.”

“Zoey, you are the absolute image of a friend of my daughter’s from college. The
absolute
image of her.”

“Really?” Zoey said absently, trying to flip the omelet without dropping it onto the stovetop. Or the floor. “Did your daughter go to Villanova? Maybe it was me.”

“No, no. We’d have remembered you! No, they went to school in Maryland, and are older than you are. But you two could be sisters.”

“Well, I hope you will tell her I said hello when you see her. And I hope you enjoy your new frying pans.” Zoey bit her bottom lip, trying to concentrate on getting all of the omelet turned over. “There! And now, let’s look at this bigger frying pan. What were we going to cook in that?” Zoey checked her notes.

“Vegetarian stir-fry?” She groaned. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

She kept up the constant chatter, as only one who truly loved to talk could do, as she discussed the merits of the large frying pan. She spoke with callers about how thick the zucchini should be sliced, how much green pepper to use, and when to add the mushrooms, all the while keeping one eye on the clock.

“That was like doing penance,” she muttered gratefully when the segment had concluded.

Ellen met her in the hallway. “You were terrible.”

“Good. That means they won’t make me do that again. Whose bright idea was it, anyway, to have me cook on the air? Me, the Queen of Take-Out, who has the distinction of being the only person in eastern Pennsylvania with a reserved parking place at Boston Market.”

Not waiting for an answer, Zoey untied the apron she had worn over her black tunic and leggings and headed for the hosts’ lounge and a cold drink.

“Wow,” Genevieve said dreamily as she walked into the room. “Did you see him?”

“See who?” Zoey said absently. Genevieve was always drooling over one member of the opposite sex or another. Visiting celebrities or stockboys, it was all pretty much the same to Gen.

“The hunk who came in with the old man this morning.” Gen sighed and leaned back into the plush cushions of the sofa.

“What old man?” Zoey sorted through the assortment of soft drinks in the small refrigerator, looking for a diet something.

“Delaney O’Connor.”

“He’s a very, very nice man, Gen, but I’d hardly call him a hunk.”

“Not him, Zoey.” Gen giggled. “I mean the hunk that was with him. Tall, broad-shouldered. Dark hair. Gorgeous.” She sighed. “To-die-for gorgeous. Even with the limp and the cane, he could


Zoey froze, the bottle, almost to her lips, suspended in midair.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Limp.

Car accident. Broken leg. Limp.

Her head began to swim.

“Which way were they going?” She grabbed Gen’s arm.

“Toward Delaney’s office. Say, you think maybe he’s that actor who’s supposed to be coming in to promote that new movie about the dolphins?”

Zoey flew out the door, her feet trying their best not to trip over each other.

“Mrs. Gilbert

Pauline.” Zoey was huffing and puffing by the time she reached the CEO’s office on the second floor. “Is Delaney here?”

“Oh, Zoey, you just missed him. He just left the building.” Pauline looked up from sorting through Delaney’s mail. Zoey appeared somewhat anxious, out of breath, and her hair uncharacteristically askew, as if she’d been, well,
running.
“Is something wrong?”

“No, no, of course not. I just thought, that is, I just
heard, and thought that maybe…”

“Mrs. Gilbert, would it be possible for me to get a cup of coffee?” A male voice asked over the intercom.

“Of course. How would you like it?” Pauline asked with customary efficiency.

“Cream, no sugar,” was the reply.

Cream, no sugar. Just the way Maureen Pierce used to drink her coffee. Zoey had prepared it for her that way a hundred times, years ago, late in the afternoons when she and Georgia would sit at the big farm table in the kitchen. Maureen would make a fresh pot of coffee and Zoey would fix a cup for her mother—black—and a cup for Maureen, cream, no sugar.

A wave of nostalgia passed over Zoey as she watched Pauline do exactly that for Maureen’s son.

“Delaney’s grandson.” Pauline gestured toward the closed office door with her head. “Just back in the country.” She paused on her way to the door and asked, “Did I hear that he was an old friend of your family’s?”

“Yes.” Zoey found her voice and, holding out a trembling hand toward the cup, asked quietly, “May I?” The ever protective Pauline hesitated.

“I would love to surprise him,” Zoey said casually, as if it was not the most important thing in her life at that very moment to see him again. “We practically grew up together, you know.”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you.” Pauline opened the door for Zoey, then stepped aside for her to pass through it.

Zoey stood on the plush carpet and stared at the man who was hopping on one foot toward the desk.

“Thanks, Pauline. I really appreciate it. You’ve no idea how difficult it is to carry a hot cup of anything when you’re—”

He looked up at her and stopped.

“Can I help you?” he asked uncertainly.

“I brought your coffee.” She held up the cup and grinned brightly.

“Oh. Thank you. Here would be fine.” He hopped around to the back of the desk and slid a coaster across the top of the highly polished wood surface. “Are you Pauline’s assistant?”

“No.”

“Are you my new secretary, then?”

“Nope.” She knew she was grinning like an idiot, but she didn’t care.

She walked slowly toward him, unable to take her eyes away. His pictures didn’t do him justice. He was taller, more muscular, more handsome. His presence filled the room, and it filled her. He looked every bit a hero.
Her
hero.

“Is there something else?” he asked uncertainly, as he flopped solidly into the high-backed leather chair.

“No, no. Actually

” The awkwardness of the situation slammed into her like a fist. He had no idea who she was.

Happy reunions seem to lose something, somehow, when you have to explain who you are.

He leaned slightly forward to look at her, frowned, and said, “You look familiar.”

“Oh, you recognized me! I knew you would!” Her eyes widened in surprise. She put her hand against her fluttering heart. “I am so glad. I was just starting to feel incredibly stupid. But you recognize me!”

“Of course I recognize you.” He smiled a wonderfully crooked smile and her stomach flipped over a time or two. “You’re the bumbling cook.”

“What?” The one word popped from her mouth.

He pointed to the television. “I watched you this morning. You’re the one who has trouble making eggs. I’m—”

“Ben Pierce.” She said his name aloud.

“How would you know that?”

“I’m Zoey,” she said simply.

For a long moment he did not react, and she thought that perhaps she had not spoken after all, that maybe being this close to him had addled her brain and she had only
thought
that she had spoken her name.

Finally, he said in a quiet voice, “I used to know a girl named Zoey.”

“I used to know a boy named Ben,” she whispered. The color had seemed to drain from his face and he stared at her for the longest time.

“Zoey Enright.”

“Yes.” She nodded and tried to smile, but it seemed out of place, he appeared so strangely somber.

“Zoey. I don’t know what to say. You’ve changed so much since the last time I saw you.” His knuckles clutched the sides of his chair, and had, she could not help but notice, gone completely white.

“I would hope so. That was seventeen years ago. I’d hate to think I still looked like an eleven-year-old.” She tried to make it sound like a wisecrack, but her heart wasn’t in it. He looked, well,
stricken
was the only word that came to mind.

“No. No, you don’t look like a child anymore.” He repositioned his right leg, which was suddenly killing him, and leaned back in the chair, a swirl of thoughts and emotions whirling in his brain.

Why hadn’t Delaney told him that Zoey Enright worked at the HMP?

“How is your mother? And Nick?” he asked, trying to sound cordial, nonchala
nt. “And your little sister…

“Georgia.”

“Right. Georgia.”
As if I’d forgotten her name. As if I’d forgotten anything

“Georgia is a dancer. She’s with a Baltimore troupe.”

“Ah, yes. She always talked about being a dancer someday. And your brother?”

“Nick is a marine biologist. He lives in New Jersey. He’s getting married soon.”

“Is that right?” His throat tightened and it was an effort to keep his air passages open. He was suffocating.
“Does
your mother still live

in the same

in Westboro?”

“Yes. She’s on a book tour right now, but she’ll be back soon. She’s dying to see you, Ben.”

“Is she? Yes, I’d like to see her too.”

“I hope you’ll still be around by the time she gets back.”

“Oh, I’ll be around all right.” Ben slammed the bottom desk drawer closed with a bang. The unexpected noise caused Zoey to jump.

“You will?” Zoey’s eyes brightened at the prospect.

“Didn’t Delaney tell you?”

“Tell me…
?”

“That he was bringing me in to give him a hand for a few months or so?”

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